


Between the Woods

by orphan_account



Series: SPN Writing Challenge [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Little Red Riding Hood Fusion, Enemies to Friends, Hunter Dean, M/M, Pre-Slash, Werewolf Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woods are filled with all sorts of monsters and beasts to be killed for a Coming of Age day, but Moon Shifters are supposed to be extinct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SPN Writing Challenge](http://spnwritingchallenge.tumblr.com) June 2016 free round. 
> 
> so i saw [this wonderful piece of fanart](http://deanjimmy.co.vu/post/145722814077/shoutitdown-destiel-red-riding-hood-au-where) by [shoutitout](shoutitout.tumbr.com) on tumblr and i couldn't help myself ok 
> 
> i plan to do a longer, more plot-heavy fic sometime but have a 4k oneshot of it for now
> 
> title taken from Robert Frost's _Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening_

Dawn breaks over the horizon, and Dean breathes in the smell of rain on the air. The last of the recent snowfall is melting in small puddles on the ground, and there’s warmth in the breeze that caresses his face. It won’t be spring for several moon cycles yet, but this has certainly been a far fairer winter than normal.

The crunch of feet on snow draws his attention, and he turns to face his family approaching him, Dad and Mom and even little Sammy, too, clinging to Dad’s leg. Mom comes to him first, a large swath of blood red cloth in her arms. She smiles softly at him, and he returns it, embracing her. She pulls back, placing a gentle, delicate hand on his cheek.

“You’ve grown so big,” she says, fondness and just a hint of sadness in her voice. “My little boy, almost a man.”

“I’ll always be your little boy, Mama,” he tells her, using the moniker he’d used as a young child, the one Sammy still uses. He hasn’t called her Mama in years.

Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “I know.” She pats his cheek before stepping back, shifting the cloth in her arms to hold it out. The gold clasp on the hood glints in a ray of sunlight that breaks through the trees.

Dean watches as Mom lets the hood unfold, the length barely sweeping the dirt beneath their feet. The cloth is sturdy and durable, with faint swirling patterns embroidered throughout it, a subtle expression of his mother’s whimsical and beautiful soul. Their family crest – a five-pointed star encircled by a sun – is embossed on the clasp. Rabbit fur lines the hem and the hood, soft to the touch.

It’s beautiful, and Dean allows Mom to throw it around his shoulders, hooking the clasp at his collarbone and smoothing her hands along the fabric. She pauses, eyes dancing over him for a few short seconds, then reaches up along his shoulders to pull the hood over his head. The fur tickles his cheeks as it settles over his head. Dean can smell hints of lavender if he turns his nose to brush against it.

With one last caress of his face, Mom tilts his head to press a kiss to his forehead. “Be safe, Dean,” she tells him, stepping back. She looks into his eyes, and Dean sees love and worry in her own. “Listen to your instincts. They won’t lead you wrong.”

“I promise, Mama.”

“Trust your heart, my little boy.” She presses one more kiss to his cheek, smiling, then backs away. “Come back to me.”

“I will, Mama,” Dean promises, and smiles at her.

After her, Dad takes his turn. His pride shines in his eyes, and Dean’s shoulders straighten and he lifts his chin as Dad claps him on the shoulder before pulling him into a hug.

“You’ll do us proud, Dean,” he says, and Dean buries his face in his dad’s shoulder, inhaling the warm, smoky smell that always follows his dad everywhere.

“Thanks, Dad.” Dean lingers for a moment more before pulling away, and Dad smiles.

Dad clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, composing himself. With a deep breath, he offers Dean the cloth-wrapped item in his arms, presenting it to him with the serious air of an important rite of passage. The cloth falls away, revealing a pristine crossbow made from a light-colored pine wood and engraved with protective runes.

Dean takes the crossbow carefully, reverently; he holds it in a sure grip, testing the weight and feel of it. He’s watched Dad spend countless hours carving away, tailoring it just so for Dean’s twenty-first winter and Coming of Age day. He remembers admiring the elegant longbow Grandpa Henry carved for Dad for his Coming of Age day, telling Dad he wanted to use a bow, too.  

The longbow still makes its home on Dad’s back, and Mom’s preferred silver dagger is sheathed at her waist. And now, the crossbow will always be at Dean’s side, to protect and serve him on the hunt that marks his change from boy into man, and – hopefully – many hunts after.

Swallowing heavily, Dean leans forward to pull Dad into another hug, squeezing tightly. “Thank you,” he whispers, and Dad squeezes him back.

Dad steps back, keeps his hands on Dean’s shoulders. The breeze stirs his greying hair, stirs the rabbit fur on Dean’s hood to brush against his cheeks. With a last squeeze to his shoulders, Dad picks up the quiver of silver arrows by his feet. The Enochian runes engraved into them glow faintly with the angelic power imbued within.  

“Be careful, Dean,” Dad says, handing the quiver over. “You’re good, but it’s never weak to be cautious.”

“I know, Dad,” Dean says. He slings the quiver around his waist, feeling it settle against his leg. The hood drapes around it, swaying with the breeze. “I got this.”  

Dad claps him on the shoulder again, smiling. “Yeah, you do. You’ll be one hell of a hunter, Dean.”

Dean beams with pride, then turns to the small figure approaching him. Sammy’s eyes are large and teary, and Dean kneels down to catch him in a hug as Sam flings himself at Dean. He holds his little brother tightly to his chest, burying his nose in Sam’s hair.

“I don’t want you to go, De,” he says, voice small. “There’re scary things in the woods.”

“That’s why I have to, little man,” Dean soothes, gently pushing Sam back to look at his face. Tears wet his blotchy cheeks, and Dean wipes them away with a gloved hand. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll be back before you know it!” This doesn’t appease Sam, so Dean pulls him close again. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, Sammy. It’ll be alright.”

Dean holds him for a long moment, murmuring reassurances until Mom finally comes to gently pry Sam from his arms. Sam clings as long as he can, but eventually lets go, and Dean puts a hand on his head, running his fingers through Sam’s hair.

“I’m gonna go get those scary things so they don’t get you, okay?”

Sam sniffs, looking up at Dean with wide eyes. “Okay, De.”

“Wait here for me, Sammy,” Dean instructs. “And when I get back, we’ll go down to the lake, okay? We’ll take lunch and make a day of it, alright?”

Sam nods, then holds out his arms for another hug. Dean holds him close for several heartbeats, squeezes once, then lets him go.

“I’ll see you in a few days, Sammy.”

Dean eventually gathers his things – his pack of food and supplies, his quiver, his crossbow – and turns to face the forest that borders the town. The sun continues its ascent in the sky, morning coming to wake the sleeping townspeople to start their day. In the distance, he hears the chiming of the clock tower, the call of birds, the bark of dogs.

“Good luck, Dean,” Dad calls to him, and Dean looks over his shoulder. “Be safe.”

Dean raises a hand in farewell, then turns and, with a deep, centering breath, walks into the trees.

 

A rustle, followed by a low growl, draws Dean’s attention to his right. He’s on his feet, crossbow drawn, as he pauses when no other disturbance follows. He slows his breathing, listening to the sudden silence that has descended upon the woods. It’s an unnatural silence, the absence of even the chirp of crickets and other insects making his skin crawl beneath his sleeves.

Two days, and he hasn’t crossed paths with anything thus far. Turning in a slow, calculated circle, Dean scans the surrounding trees for signs of movement, his ears straining to pick out a sound – any sound – that will tell him what has him on edge.

From the corner of his eye, shadows move, and Dean turns his head, slowly, to meet the glowing red eyes of a hellhound. Its body is a mass of swirling, suffocating smoke, the stench of sulfur reaching Dean’s nose and nearly making him gag.

Scary monsters indeed, Dean thinks, heart rate increasing as the ugly fucker watches him. It bears its fangs, growling low in its throat, circling him. Dean keeps it in his sight as best he can without turning to follow it with his body; any sudden movement, no matter how careful, could very well be his last.

But he can’t just stand and wait for it to attack, either, and Dean knows he’s quick, too. His fingers flex against his crossbow, the silver arrow glinting in the beam of sunlight that’s managed to filter down through the evergreen canopy. It won’t kill the thing unless he gets a direct shot between the thing’s eyes, but the silver will burn and the Enochian runes will go a long way to incapacitating it long enough for Dean to draw another arrow and make another shot.

Assuming he doesn’t miss.

Adrenaline pumping through him, Dean takes two deep breaths, waiting for the hound to reenter his sight. He counts low, barely more than a warm murmur –

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

Dean turns on his heel, bringing up the crossbow at the same time, and lets the arrow fly. The hound is faster, lunging at him at the arrow slices through its flank but ultimately avoiding the worst. Dean dives out of the way, the hound howling in pain and anger and rage as it just misses the edge of his hood. He’s up and swirling around to face the hound, another arrow already nocked and flying as he takes off into the forest. The arrow misses and lodges instead in a tree, and the hound gives another howl as it begins pursuit.

Light on his feet, Dean bounds through the trees quick and graceful, leaping over fallen trunks and rocks lying in the brush. He’s more agile than the hound, but the hound doesn’t actually have to worry about the obstacles, and Dean’s breathing hard after several long minutes running for his life. He fires off arrows over his shoulder, catching the hound in the side a few times but nothing to slow it down. It howls and barks and snarls, lunging for him when it gets close only for Dean to turn abruptly and dart away perpendicular to his original path.

If this keeps up, though, the hound will have him as soon as exhaustion sets in – Dean can’t run forever.

There’s the sound of rushing water to his left as Dean enters another clearing, and he turns a complete one-eighty to face the hound. The beast crashes through the trees, and Dean’s releasing another arrow as it bares its fangs at him.

The agonizing shriek it lets out as the arrow buries itself in its left shoulder stirs the birds in the trees, and the wail is accompanied by the flutter of wings. The hound snarls at him, eyes glowing like fire and brimstone, and Dean reaches for another arrow as it lunges at him.

Taken by surprise – the damn thing should have been writing on the ground! What the fuck use is angelic magic if it doesn’t _work?!_ – Dean just manages to avoid the worst by throwing himself to the side, but it doesn’t stop the sudden burst of burning, angry pain in his leg where the thing sinks its fangs, ripping through his trousers and tearing through his skin.

Warm blood runs in steady, thick rivulets down his leg, staining his pants and the hem of his hood as he drags himself along the ground. He bites back a whimper as he turns over to face his death. The hound is limping slightly, the runes glowing in the part of the arrow sticking out of its shoulder. It snaps its maw, advancing on him—

Dean doesn’t see the enormous, dark shape on his left until the hound is sent flying with a howl of rage. His heart pounds in his chest, sinking – _there’s two of them there’s two of them shit shit shit_ – but he’s frozen, watching, almost mesmerized, as the second hound lunges at the first, teeth sinking into the first hound’s unwounded shoulder and tearing a chunk out of it. Howls rip into the air, and the first hound attempts to claw at the other, but the other is faster, avoiding the swipe and going for the jugular, ripping clean through it.

Throat torn out, the first hound cries out, black, goo-like blood gushing from its body as it backs away and collapses. It twitches – once, twice, three times – then is still.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s breathing so hard until the second hound turns its attention to him, and—

Large blue eyes peer at him, muzzle dripping with hellhound blood, and Dean’s blood turns to ice.

It’s not another hellhound.

_Moon Shifter._

The large wolf – and holy shit, Dean’s never seen one but it’s so impossibly _huge_ – watches him for a moment before it trots over, and if Dean weren’t starting to feel woozy, he’d be reaching for the dagger in his boot. As it is, Dean can only stare as the wolf pauses next to him, examining his wound.

What.

“If you’re gonna kill me, I’d like if you just got it over with,” Dean snaps, hysteria bleeding into his voice.

Blue eyes meet his again, the full force of them knocking the breath out of Dean; the crystal color of them mesmerizes him, and he finds himself unable to look away as the wolf presses in close, careful of his wound, and folds itself down.

It gazes at Dean expectantly, and Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times before gritting out, “What?”

The wolf rolls – _rolls_ – his eyes, and Dean yelps as his snout is forcefully, yet gently, dug into his armpit and under his arms, and it takes Dean a moment to realize that the wolf wants him to hold onto him so the wolf can lift him up.

Dizzy from blood loss and still high on adrenaline and endorphins, Dean can’t do anything but go with the flow, and he struggles to his feet with the help of the wolf. He hisses in pain when his weight falls on his leg, nearly falling over again but for the wolf suddenly knocking into him and jostling him onto its back, like it’s a horse and not, in fact, a wolf-form Moon Shifter.

Dean digs his fingers into the wolf’s fur, surprised to find not the coarse texture he’s expecting but the softness of satin or silk. Satisfied that Dean is secure, the wolf takes off at a steady jog, and Dean is fascinated at the shift of muscle against his body, the power and grace that the wolf moves with. The scent of rain and lightning, like a coming storm, mixed with the sweet, mouthwatering aroma of warm honey fills Dean’s nose, and he just barely keeps himself from burying his nose in the soft fur to inhale even more of it.

_Get your shit together, Dean._ _This is your enemy. Don’t forget that._

Woozy as he is, Dean doesn’t pay attention to how long the wolf moves through the forest until they’re at the stream that crosses through it. Finding a satisfactory spot, the wolf stops and lowers itself to the ground, and Dean carefully slides off, hitting the ground with a grunt. He watches warily as the wolf stands again, observing him, before turning and heading off into the brush a little way downstream.

Dean watches the wolf snuff through some of the bushes before turning back to him, coming back with a small cloth-wrapped bundle of items. It sets it down by Dean’s hand, in easy reach, then turns away again and takes off back the way they came.

Well, he’s not dead yet, and Dean releases a long breath. He looks at the bundle the wolf brought him and finds it to be medical supplies: cloth wraps, salve, gauze, herbs for tea, and even a few blooms of Angel’s Grace to mix with the tea. There’s also a mortar and pestle for grinding up the herbs.

Dean looks back the way the wolf ran off, and not sensing its return, he carefully maneuvers himself to the edge of the stream, bringing the supplies with him. He uses the dagger in his boot to cut away the blood-soaked cloth around the hellhound wound, grimacing at the long gashes running from the middle of his thigh to the top of his calf. He takes the cloth strips from the bundle and dips them in the stream, wetting them thoroughly, before beginning the slow, painful process of cleaning his wound.

Rustling behind him has Dean looking up, expecting to see the large wolf, but instead is met with those same blue eyes in a handsome, tanned face beneath a mop of wild, dark hair. The man – _Moon Shifter_ – stares as he approaches, dropping Dean’s own supply satchel beside him as he kneels next to Dean.

“Let me do that,” he says softly, in a voice much deeper than Dean expects. He reaches for the wet cloth strips in Dean’s hand, and Dean jerks away as if burned when he remembers what the man beside him is.

“I can clean my own damn wounds,” Dean spits, automatically pushing himself to get farther away but wincing when it aggravates said wounds.

The shifter gives him an unimpressed scowl. “Far be it for me to help make sure you don’t die of hound poisoning because you won’t be able to move enough with your wound to treat it properly.”

He gestures to the wound, which is surrounded by dark, sickly lines spreading in a vaguely lightning-shaped pattern. Dean winces on principle.

“You’ve no more than a quarter of an hour before the poison begins affecting your nervous system and rendering you incapable of movement beyond muscle spasms. After that, you’ll begin hallucinating, first visual, then auditory. Then burning from the inside as it melts your organs, and then you die – from choking on your own saliva because you can’t swallow, if you’re lucky.”

Dean stares wide-eyed, unable to retort. He knows the effects of hellhound poisoning; it’s something Dad’s drilled into his head since he was old enough to properly hold a knife. _Don’t let it bite you,_ Dad would say. _That’s no way for a hunter to go._

His fear must show on his face, because those blue eyes, fiery as they are, soften, and the shifter places a gentle hand on Dean’s where he’s gripping the cloth strips so hard his fingers are white.

“I’m not your enemy, hunter,” he says. “I only wish to help.”

“Why?” Dean breathes out, regaining some of his composure at the electricity of the touch to his fingers. “You’re a… a _Moon Shifter._ Why would you want to _help_ me?”

The shifter sits back, a hint of annoyance back in his eyes. “It is not my kind that kills yours for sport.”

“We don’t—”

“It’s a way for prejudiced, hateful people to eradicate what they do not understand and they justify it by calling it a ‘part of life.’”

The shifter uses the distraction of conversation to grab the cloth strips from Dean’s hand, and the fight leaves Dean as the shifter dips it into the water, rinsing it of drying blood and – more gently than Dean expects – continuing to clean the wound. He’s much more efficient than Dean had been, considering he can fully move to reach it.

It’s quiet between them while the shifter cleans Dean’s wound with clinical, precise movements. He moves to the salve when most of the blood has been cleared away, the rest having clotted and coagulated with the poison. One of the Angel’s Grace blooms is crushed in the mortar along with the salve, and Dean watches in wonder as the soft glow of the nectar mixes with the viscous salve, working much like the Enochian runes on his arrows to imbue the salve with proper hound poison healing abilities.

The other is mixed into a liquid for ingesting, and Dean drinks the sweet concoction with much less fuss than he expected of himself as the shifter applies the salve to his wound. It stings initially, and Dean grits his teeth at the flare of burning in his leg, hand unconsciously reaching to hold onto the shifter’s bicep. But a blessed second later, a soothing coolness follows, and Dean watches in rapture as the inky, sick black of the poison is burned away with a blue glow. The gash itself begins closing, and five breaths later Dean’s leg is wound-free, not even a scar left to remind him it was there in the first place.

The shifter begins cleaning up the supplies, and Dean sits, resting, watching him with a small frown and his thoughts a storm in his mind.

This isn’t what he’d heard about Moon Shifters. They were ruthless, more beast than human, animals that kill humans without second thought. It’s why his people became hunters, to protect humans from the monsters in the woods. He hadn’t thought there were even any left.

And yet here one is, tending to Dean like it’s only right, like they aren’t supposed to be enemies. _Saving_ Dean without thought, at great risk to his own life, despite knowing Dean would immediately want to turn and end him. Dean can’t figure out why a ruthless killing beast would have reason to do that.  

Unless he isn’t actually a ruthless killing beast.

“You won’t be able to travel for several hours more,” the shifter says, and Dean shakes himself from his thoughts. “Rest here, and I’ll escort you back to the town when you can move.”

“I don’t need a chaperone,” Dean grumps petulantly, but there’s less bite in it than he’d like. “I can take care of myself.”

The shifter only tilts his head, a small smile turning up the corner of his lips – pink and plush-looking, but Dean’s still sort of woozy so he blames it on that. “I don’t doubt it.”

There’s something in those blue eyes that draws Dean in, and he doesn’t know why his heart beats faster in his chest at that smile. He can’t stop his cheeks from heating up, either, so Dean looks away, and they sit in companionable silence until the sky begins lightening, and Dean breaks it with a soft voice.

“Thank you,” he says, glancing over at the shifter. “For… for helping me. You didn’t have to.”

“No, I didn’t,” the shifter agrees, looking at Dean with those piercing eyes that seem to look right through him. “But why not give kindness where hatred or even apathy is expected?”

Dean chuckles, looking off into the distance. “You got a point there.”

“Castiel.”

Dean glances back over. “What?”

The shifter smiles again. “My name. Castiel.”

Dean gives a small smile back. “Dean Winchester.”

“Well, Dean Winchester.”

Castiel pushes himself to his feet, heading a few paces away to pick something up off the ground. When he turns, Dean sees it’s his crossbow, dropped when the hellhound lunged at him. Castiel offers him a hand, helping to pull Dean to his feet, then offers the crossbow. Dean takes it, glad to have it back in his hands. He looks up at Castiel, blue eyes glowing in the growing light.

“Let’s get you back to town.”

“Sure thing, Cas.”

Cas smiles wider, softer, and Dean winks, slinging the crossbow over his shoulder. His hood sweeps the ground as he turns in the direction of home, and he takes off with a wolf by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [bottomnovak](http://deanjimmy.co.vu)


End file.
